I have like a several hundred thousand things to do. My to-do list looks like a cartoon gift wish list to Santa. And books are piled on my desk. Some of this is self-inflicted. I have Czech homework to do, a substack to write, and feelings to lie about in a journal entry. I’m swamped.
Naturally, I go to Facebook.
Facebook has become a strange place to an old person like me. When I was younger and used to stare into my computer, I recognized everyone. I also – occasionally – saw posts from people I actually know in real life. I saw their opinions, humorous observations, and run-throughs of their travels and experiences.
But this is no longer the case.
My Facebook page might as well be the Facebook page of a random stranger. The posts are split up among political themes, pictures of houses in Portugal, and kettlebell workouts. There’s not a face I recognize in my People You May Know section. It might as well be filled with forest nymphs and battle dwarves. There are family pictures out of which I can not pick one person. I know nobody on my wall anymore. Now and then a friend’s post comes up and then it’s right back to pictures of shihtzus in sailor outfits.
This is just real life nowadays. Nobody reading this thinks anything strange about the description of Facebook or of my day written above. But imagine being an objective observer in this thing. Imagine if you were transported here from 1990 or something. Imagine explaining to that 1990 person what I have just written. It was definitely have a Twilight Zone feel to it.
“So, when I get stressed out, I look at a little box on my desk that offers images of dogs and inspirational quotes tailored to my needs and interests. Oh, and in that little box there it suggests people I might connect with to make friends. Why? Because they are – evidently – friends of other friends. I guess. I have never laid eyes on any of them.”
1990 Me asks questions and, though he is not a drinker yet, he reaches for a bottle of Chambord that his parents had had in the liquor cabinet when he was born and would have until he turns 36.
“That list of names and tiny faces? Oh, that’s a sidebar. That’s all the people on Earth that I know and I can instantly talk to any of them. Right now. Yeah? You want to try? Who? I can’t hear you with that bottle in your mouth. Oh her. No, we can’t talk to her anymore.”
It would take more time to explain why my personal information box would be ruled by the antics of Donald Trump, a person who 1990 Me thinks was just in a movie and has a weird hairweave thing. It would be better to leave ChatGPT for a different time or 1990 Me might lose his mind.
So this whole thing is ridiculous. And I know I should fix its place in my life. And I would do that, but I have like a hundred thousand things to do.
#1 by Vee on January 29, 2026 - 12:11 am
If there’s something that never goes away, it’s things on my to do list and the eeriness of Facebook Marketplace. We should be doing very many things in very many different places on very many different occasions at all times, and somehow everything everywhere all at once (and then some). I have never in my objectively quite short life felt like I wasn’t swamped. Take it easy, D! January (and February for that matter) is still a hibernating period.
#2 by Damien Galeone on February 1, 2026 - 9:07 am
Vee! Welcome to the swamp land – since you already inhabit it, I welcome you to my personal island within it. I agree about January and February – in theory. I know this period should be a time to hunker down and eat carbs and put on some fat and then, in late March, come out of my cave and stretch big and yawn and shake the cave mold off my fur and come back to the world of the coherent. However, I feel blobby and icky and I want to be able to walk around outside with my dog in this neato carry bag I got for Christmas, which, by the way, will no doubt permanently relegate me to the status of lapdog owner. A relegation I am distressingly comfortable with. I’ll see you on the other side!